The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(57)

It was because he cared.

Only because he hadn’t cared about Mary Stuart had Stephen been able to flirt with her—to use the charm he’d borrowed liberally from Kit’s example to flatter her and twist her impressions so she found him a sympathetic and ready listener. But then, Mary Stuart had been a job to him…right up to the moment he discovered that she’d put her life above that of his sister’s. And then she had become a more personal enemy.

But Ailis was not just a job. The most successful covers, Julien had taught him, were those that hewed most closely to the truth of a man’s soul. And truth be told, Stephen had serious qualms about English policy in Ireland. He’d been appalled at the poverty and hunger, made many times worse by English soldiers burning crops and destroying livestock solely to deprive the Irish of a means to live. If a man couldn’t eat, ran the reasoning, then he sure as hell couldn’t fight. But where was the valour and honour in that?

The slaughter at Carrigafoyle might have been masterminded by Oliver Dane, but Pelham had done nothing to stop him, and he had not even been reprimanded by the English authorities. And then, of course, came the slaughter of prisoners outside Kilkenny. Though Stephen knew that act was beyond the pale of what even the most staunchly loyal lords like Ormond could stomach, the fact remained that it had mostly been shrugged off. Buried and forgotten.

The truth was, he sympathized with Ailis. Especially now that he knew it was Oliver Dane who had so abused her when she was not much older than Liadan. How many Irish women had borne children to Englishmen who’d used them carelessly and then moved on? How could he possibly justify his countrymen in that? How could he not look at Ailis and want to help her seek vengeance?

And how could he look Peter Martin in the eye in the next few days and lie? Even if by omission. For Stephen already knew that he would not breathe a word about Oliver Dane that might make its way back to Walsingham. He did not want to be ordered off that scent.

Because if he was, he could not swear he would obey that order.

—

Despite her reservations, Anabel thoroughly enjoyed herself the first three weeks of the Duc d’Anjou’s visit. Whatever his physical drawbacks, Francis was witty and clever and knew how to make her laugh. Not, perhaps, as easily as Kit could, but it was a welcome respite all the same. She and Anjou each took to composing scurrilous verses about various members of the English court, striving to see who could outdo the other. Francis usually won, because he didn’t have Anabel’s innate respect for men and women she’d known most of her life, but every now and then that very familiarity meant she could go devastatingly to the heart of pomposity or vanity.

Pippa would have scolded her. Kit would have joined her. Lucette, in her siblings’ place, merely rolled her eyes like the nominal older sister she was.

Anabel worked hard to keep the rest of the Courtenays out of her thoughts. Whatever they were doing in Spain was beyond her reach and there was little information coming in other than official reports. The personal letters were few and far between. At last, three months after they had sailed from Portsmouth, two insightful letters arrived from Spain.





10 July 1582


Dearest Anabel,

Are you surviving Lucie’s attentions? Although, truth be told, since she met Julien she has very little attention for anything else.

No, that is not true. There is no man in the world who could make Lucie stop solving puzzles and immersing herself in mathematics and logic. But Julien has tempered her previous desire to be seen to be perfect. Though perhaps you know that even better than I do, seeing as the two of you were confined at Wynfield together. Stress, I believe, can forge strong bonds.

Seville is my favourite of the Spanish cities we have seen. Perhaps because it is the least insular, its port being the gateway to a world far beyond any we have ever dreamt of. I watch the ships coming and going from the New World and a small part of me longs to wing my way to the ends of our earth. To see the jungles and savage coastlines, to hear languages never before imagined, to meet people who have not the slightest idea who we are—or care!

But that is just fancy. I promise I will not leave you like that. We shall be back in a month or so, Anabel. With enough stories to satisfy even you.

Love,

Pippa





Beneath Pippa’s carefully composed letter were two lines scrawled in a familiar hand.

Every sight, every sound, every taste of Spain reminds me of you. I will have lots to tell you when we return.

Kit





The second letter wasn’t even for Anabel. Madalena, while helping string pearls through Anabel’s hair for an evening reception of London’s mayor and guild leaders, said matter-of-factly, “My grandmother writes that Lady Philippa and Lord Christopher came to see her in Seville.”

Anabel flinched against Madalena’s hands, then stilled. “Did they? I presume they are well.”

Of course they were well. Illness or difficulty would surely have been reported to her mother.

She could never deceive Madalena. “She thought Lord Christopher more astute than she would have expected from such a pretty younger son.”

Pretty? Anabel choked back a laugh. She would never have used that word, but had to admit it fit. At least on the surface.

“Lady Philippa, my grandmother wrote, is troubled. And taking care to hide it from those around her.”